Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03] (6 page)

Meryon felt as though she were continuing their conversation, assuring
him
life would go on, even more fully than before. Joy now enriched by experience. Loss gave a deeper meaning to passion.

Her voice made his kiss a weak and tentative consolation. Oh, how he wanted to show her what a kiss could be.

Her husband had written this, surely. After they had made love. The music filled the air with such exuberant satisfaction that he could only imagine what they had shared.

When she finished, the room exploded into applause. Meryon joined them, glancing at Lord William, who was cheering and applauding with an enthusiasm that announced he knew her better than most. Lord William flashed a grin at Meryon, who raised his hands, still clapping, acknowledging her excellence, even as he wondered how the Signora and the viscount had met.

Signora Verano curtsied a little, smiling and appreciative, with an air of apology for having sung a song of such intensity in public, relieved they were not offended.

The next song began with an orchestral introduction. It was a joy-filled air that intrigued the listeners as it was so at odds with Signora Verano’s expression. The orchestra stopped playing and he watched her draw a breath before continuing
a cappella
.

Leave
, he commanded himself.
Leave, before she breaks your heart
. Looking neither left nor right, Meryon stepped away and into the now empty hall before her voice could draw him back.

E
LENA SAW HIM
leave the room. How could he? He had recognized her; she knew he had, as she had known him.

Her voice faltered for a second, a terrible failure, but it came on the exact note when the mood of the song changed and seemed to add to the moment rather than distract from it. The analytical part of her decided she might sing it that way in her next performance.

She dismissed the thought and concentrated on the words, losing herself in the music, which drove her sensibilities, coming from her heart and mind.

At first her world was free from care, oblivious to the future. The blithe first phrases gave way to shock, loss, desolation, and confusion. There were tears on her cheeks as she held the last note. The audience stood silent, transfixed. They understood.

She smiled an apology for subjecting them to something so painful, as glorious a smile as she could manage. If they thought everything was all right and they need not worry, it was exactly what she wanted them to believe.

With an audible sigh of relief the audience relaxed and applauded again, not the storm of applause that followed the first song, but one filled with respect and even some admiration.

Despite calls for more, Elena shook her head and stepped down from the stage. Immediately surrounded by people, mostly men, Elena gathered her composure, hoping that her demeanor would discourage the men who thought they had their next conquest.

“Tell us about that last song, signora,” a gentleman asked, as though it were not a terribly personal question.

“I wrote it ten days after my husband’s death.”

The group was struck silent and she hurried on to ease their discomfort. “The critics called it a theatrical tune filled with maudlin self-pity. All true music lovers, which everyone knows critics are not, loved it.” She smiled to show whose opinion mattered most.

The group laughed. Then one of them suggested that “it shared true emotion with honesty.”

“Like the music of Beethoven,” another called out.

“Thank you for the compliment, sir, but no one equals Beethoven’s genius.”

Mr. Harbison announced supper and the group began to disperse, heading to the dining room. A few gentlemen offered her their arm, but Elena declined them all and stayed behind to thank her hosts and take her leave.

Lord William escorted her from the house, a choice
noted by more than one of The Gossips. She and William spoke in Italian, which gave them a measure of privacy. Not many Englishmen knew that language as well as they knew French.

“How sweet of you to see me home, dear man.”

“Perhaps I will have a chance to see Mia.” He stood beside her but was not still, moving up and down, from one step to another.

“That is why you are accompanying me! Do you ever do anything with one thing in mind?”

“Make love.” He tried not to smile as he spoke.

“That does nothing to make me think of you as an appropriate companion for an eighteen-year-old girl. Besides, you cannot pay a call this late, William.”

“You are too strict, signora.” He spoke in an aggrieved tone, like a wounded lover. “You sound like an Italian mother.”

“Guardian.” She winced at the edge in her voice and did her best to soften it as she continued. “Now that both her father and Edward are dead, I am Mia’s guardian.” Most days she felt old enough to be Mia’s grandmother. Was that grief or comparison with the girl’s exuberant youth?

“She seems amazingly excited about spending her spring in a city where it rains more than the sun shines.”

“Her enthusiasm is my great good luck. Edward and I had actually talked about the idea that an English husband would calm her.” Though she had thought “balance” was a better choice of words. Mia would add life to any man’s world and the right man would, yes, calm her.

“As for the weather,” she added, “on a soft night like
this London seems a very kind city. The air feels like spring.” She drew in a deep breath. The scent of new leaves on the trees and shrubs in the park across the road filled her senses with hope and the promise of new adventures. That reminded her of a question that William could answer. “Do you know a man whose wife died within the last year? Her name was Rowena.”

“Yes, of course. Rowena was the Duchess of Meryon. Her husband is Lynford Pennistan, the duke.”

“Thank you, William. Thank you.” She looked off at the lighted house across the street. So he was titled. A duke, no less. Not the kind of man she wanted anything to do with.

“Why?” William asked. “Have you met him?”

“Not precisely.” Elena knew she should banish the stranger from her mind. Not only because he was a duke, but because if she did not it would fuel William’s unquenchable curiosity. She knew that as well as she knew her name, but that kiss made it impossible for her to resist asking. “William, what do you know of him?”

“More than I did a year ago.”

When he did not add anything else, Elena nudged him. “Well?”

“I cannot share it. I promised, you see.”

“Dear Mother in heaven, William, you are full of intrigue.”

“I will tell you this. Meryon is a good man, very private, and his family means everything to him. No threat to his family’s well-being ever goes unpunished.” He nodded, as if confirming a privately held certainty. “Meryon’s
loyalty forever changed how I regard him, but I am not at liberty to discuss the details.”

His smiled with both apology and conviction, and Elena shrugged. William could keep his secret. If it ever mattered, well, then the Duke of Meryon would tell her himself.

“Did you talk to him before I sang?” It had to have been the duke standing next to him. His seemed the right height and build. And she could not tear her eyes away from him.

“Yes, I told him he had to hear you sing. What a shame he left before you were finished. I would have liked to introduce you. He’s—”

“Will you stop meddling, William!” She raised a hand to make sure he would stop talking and listen. “I have come to England to live quietly. Not to find a husband.”

“I’ve wondered why you came back. Not only for Mia. That is altogether too selfless.”

“Hardly ‘came back,’ William. I’ve never seen London before. I went straight from the house in Yorkshire to Italy, if you recall. I came here because the Italians expected me to be a living memorial to the great Verano. I want to live life on my own terms and find a husband for Mia. If I want to be introduced to Meryon I will make my own arrangements.”

“Yes, I see.” He stopped fidgeting with his watch fob.

“I do not need a matchmaker.” He looked sheepish and she realized that it was exactly what he had in mind.

“William! Did you know he was in that room when you suggested I use it?”

He shrugged and nodded, cringing as though he thought she might hit him.

“Why did you do that?” She put a hand out to stop his endless bouncing from one step to the next.

“I hoped it would distract you from your grief. And I’m right. It worked, didn’t it?” He watched her expression and grinned. “The Duke of Meryon would be quite a catch.”

“You above all should know why I would marry a stonemason before I would accept a duke. They are too full of pride and their own importance, too used to power. Their most casual gesture can ruin lives.”

“You should not damn all because of one, Elena. It’s like saying that all women who perform have loose morals.”

He had a point, but she was not going to concede it.

“Tell me this, dear aunt: Do you want to see him again?”

Why would she want to see him again? Because the very fact he bared his soul made him different from other aristocrats. Because the simple act of sitting close to him had made her feel alive, fully alive for the first time since she had returned to the social scene. He might be the same as all the others but with him
she
felt different.

“If you start this, I will do you the same favor.” She raised a finger to her lips. “It seems to me that the Harbisons have one daughter who never did take and is still single.”

“I am chastened. Please spare me. She is almost six feet tall!”

“Then let me find my own match, William, and I will allow you the same.”

“All right.” He began swatting his leg with his hand.

He agreed too readily; she knew now to be on her guard.

“Though I do think it rude of Meryon to leave before you finished singing.”

“It is just as well that he did. If he still mourns the death of his wife that last song would have been too painful, too strong a reminder of his loss.”

M
ERYON DID NOT
escape completely. Waiting on the steps for his coach, he would have had to cover his ears if he did not want to hear the song.

He sat in his carriage now, the windows open to enjoy the unusual warmth of the evening. As John Coachman made his way through the busy streets, other conveyances slowed to allow the duke’s crested coach to pass.

As they passed houses, most of them dark, the memory of the last melody echoed through him. The song had been beautiful, more beautiful than the singer herself. Meryon had not thought that possible.

The anguish in her voice had ripped into him, paralyzing him with something like fear. His heart had raced, his head ached. He’d clenched his fist and taken a few steps away from the door, as if that would help. Then he’d noticed the people around him.

The coachmen stopped their chatting and turned to the window. A flower seller, apparently dozing on the servants’ steps, came to stand near them. The grooms did
not tease her as they usually did, but stood as quiet as the rest.

Two or three of the coachmen took off their hats and held them over their hearts. No one was spared this pain. Not king or commoner, coachman or duke.

It might have felt like she sang to him alone, but that was vanity. Signora Elena Verano sang for every man.

In their conversation, Signora Verano had proved she could awaken a man’s pain with words as well as with music. If that was talent then it was a gift from the devil.

“Can you spare a ha’penny, my lord?” The words pulled him from his speculation. When the boy who had spoken saw he had heard him, he ran along beside the carriage. “My ma is hungry and so am I. My pa went north to find work.” The lad stopped as the coach slowed for a corner. “Please, sir.”

The duke eyed the boy for a moment. The boy watched the duke in return. Meryon wondered where the lad had mastered that unrevealing stare.

“Tell me your name.”

The boy blinked and did not answer right away, but he did manage to keep up with the carriage.

Meryon knocked on the roof of the coach and the coachman slowed and then stopped. The duke reached for his purse and held up two coins. “Your name.”

“Alan Wilson, sir.”

Meryon tossed Mr. Wilson one of the coins. “Tell me what you know about horses.”

“Enough to tell you that one of yours is close to lame.”

“I was hoping to reach the stable before it gives out completely,” John Coachman called down.

“Then anyone with a good eye could see that.” Meryon had taken enough brandy to wonder if he or John Coachman had a guardian angel. Nonsense. God could not possibly take that much interest in every soul. “Are you looking for work like your father?”

“Not if you toss me that other coin.”

So perhaps this situation did not involve divine intervention. “If you change your mind, come to Penn House near Burlington Arcade. Bring your mother. I can give you both work.” Meryon tossed him the coin.

The lad caught the coin with ease and, without another word, ran off the way he had come. Meryon sat back, corked the brandy, and tucked it into the seat pocket. Alan Wilson was a younger, more lanky version of Joshua Kepless and Meryon did not need brandy to make him any more maudlin. He opened the door and climbed down.